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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546877">The Eye of an Aesthete Beholder</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyBeethoven/pseuds/MistyBeethoven'>MistyBeethoven</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>"Yes, I Really Am This Pathetic!" or "How to Say I Love You with a Story or a Picture" [77]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (1993)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1970s, Acceptance, Aesthete, Artists, Awkward Romance, BBW, Beauty - Freeform, Bosses, F/M, Falling In Love, Feminine Hygiene Products, Friday the 13th, Love, Love Stories, Models, Native American Character(s), Overweight, Poodles, Romantic Comedy, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Weight Issues, assistants, changing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:14:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyBeethoven/pseuds/MistyBeethoven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aesthete artist Julian Gitchie takes one look at me, the plump art Department girl from Yoni Yum &amp; Dew feminine hygiene products, and quickly has an asthma attack. I, on the other hand, have my issues with the man and his concepts of beauty.</p><p>Both of us, however, can agree on being grateful that our meeting only needs to last one Friday the 13th.</p><p>That is until the head of the company, the Countess, declares that I shall be Gitchie's personal assistant until the latest campaign is completed.</p><p>As weeks pass, I still believe the man sees little beauty in me until a certain event opens my eyes.</p><p>KEANU, IF YOU EVER READ THESE, CHAPTER 3'S NOTE OF THIS ONE HAS SOMETHING I DEFINITELY WANT YOU TO READ. PLEASE READ IT! SORRY FOR SHOUTING BUT STARS ARE SO HIGH IN THE SKY, WHAT ELSE CAN I DO TO GET YOUR ATTENTION?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Butty &amp; Julian Gitchie, Butty &amp; Me, Julian Gitchie/Me, The Countess (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues) &amp; Julian Gitchie, The Countess (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues) &amp; Me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>"Yes, I Really Am This Pathetic!" or "How to Say I Love You with a Story or a Picture" [77]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Of Course, the Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I was supposed to update "Tynwald" today but when I heard it was Friday the 13th I knew that the logical choice was this fic. It could far more easily incorporate the day into it. :/</p><p>I have to admit, I only watched Keanu's scenes in the film. And I only read the Julian Gitchie scenes from the book for more info. Which brings me to, I wasn't sure what pronouns to use for the Countess but the author, Tom Robbins, uses "he" so I went with that.</p><p>It's an inexplicable three parter for a character that is in about six minutes of the film. But I think it might turn out sweet. So that's good enough for me.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Countess stood behind her desk at Yoni Yum &amp; Dew looking me over in the greatest of distaste, as I sat in the chair before his desk. I felt hopelessly large in the suit he had demanded that I wear as one of his minions in the art department for the company of the feminime hygiene product that he pedalled.</p><p>"Cross your legs dear," my employer instructed, his lipstick covered mouth sneering in disapproval while his mascara clad eyes rolled before rising to the ceiling. "I demand all of my female employees from the art department cross their legs; it's more <em>artistic</em>. Plus I can tell if you're using the spray or powder."</p><p>Feeling quite frightened, fully aware since my eighth Birthday party when my sister had quite reproachfully tried to get me to do the same thing, that my plump legs were most unwilling to hold such a position, I tried in the fear of earning the Countess' wrath. I managed something far from "artistic" but the Countess seemed pleased, at least somewhat, and after a far distance sniff, to try to tell if I was using the hygiene product we sold, returned to the reason why he had called me into his office.</p><p>"I want you to go to see Julian Gitchie, the watercolorist whom does all the artwork for Yoni Yum &amp; Dew," my boss said. "You'll give him the details of the latest planned campaign and be able to introduce yourself."</p><p>I nodded, very familiar by this stage of Gitchie's work. His pastel palette was soft and pleasing, the women he painted so thin, beautiful and spritely that I would often stare at them in envy, wishing I could be half as lovely. But I had never met him before, only recently having been promoted.</p><p>"It is proper...<em>good</em> and proper," the Countess said tapping his chin.</p><p>"What is?" I asked, still struggling to keep my chubby legs crossed.</p><p>"The day, of course, you silly fat fool!" he snapped, his tone of voice wounding my feelings all the more. "It's Friday the 13th...Julian will think it's perfectly aesthetically <em>right</em> that I unleash you upon him on the unluckiest day of the year. The poor darling might even forgive me, gentleman that he is. He's a Mohawk, did I mention?"</p><p>"No, you didn't," I stated, my leg slipping off of my knee again.</p><p>I had also had no idea what day it was until the man had told me this also. Perhaps if he had let me go to my desk and see the large calendar on the wall bearing the single date instead of summoning me instantly to his office to sit in a most uncomfortable way, while being insulted, I might have, I thought ruefully.</p><p>"But he's not a <em>practicing</em> Indian," the Countess stated. "He's not even a practicing man," he added.</p><p>"Oh," I stated. "Is he..."</p><p>"No! Goodness gracious no!" my boss stated, blinking his thickly painted lashes. "I just meant they weeded that all out of him in the Ivy League. They do that these days. A few lessons and pfffft it's all gone just like that!" he snapped his fingers. "No more do we have the rugged man whom oozes strength, masculinity and sex. You know, the type who will take you whenever he pleases?"</p><p>I offered a smaller nod, never having met a man whom was altogether like that; certainly not one whom wanted to take me at all. The Countess seemed not to notice my ignorance, however, and continued on regardless. "Now we have educated ninnies. Wimps whom don't know what that noodle is dangling between their legs and the sack below that."</p><p>Blushing, I looked to my chubby leg still balancing pecariously on my knee.</p><p>The Countess read my face. "Oh, dear Lord, I take it you don't know what that hole is for between your fat thighs either! That's why you smell so fuckless clean! Putting you and Julian together will either be my most brilliant creation or a complete and <em>utter</em> disaster. Now go! Leave me alone. My secretary will give you the address to his studio. Julian will be waiting. Don't be surprised if he faints."</p><p>And on that rather disconcerting note I left, the sound of the phone beginning to ring doing very little to soothe my frazzled nerves.</p><p>"No. She's gone. She's a <em>virgin</em>; Did you know?" I heard the Countess saying, even though I was still in the room. It was as if the moment he saw my back he believed that it was perfectly fine to talk about me because I no longer existed. "Julian'll like that but nothing else, I fear. Last time I sent him a girl with large thumbs and it drove him absolutely mad! This time, I'm sending him a girl who's big all over! I shudder to think!"</p><p>* * *</p><p>The moment Julian Gitchie saw me, he didn't actually faint but he did start to wheeze. Very badly. His small mahogany  eyes made a journey from my face and then to my simple black flat adorned feet and then back to my face. On both journeys they got stuck on that large area in between called my belly and he looked confused. That was when the wheezing started. At first, it sounded like that little puff of air escaping when you sat on a new leather chair or a sofa wrapped in plastic. Then it turned subtly into the sound you might hear when the wind blows through the sleeve of a shirt left to hang outside to dry. But eventually it turned into the sound you would make after climbing a large hill.</p><p>In this case, the hill that Julian Gitchie had to get over was my protruding tummy.</p><p>"The Countess sent you?" he managed to say, without much breath, during the transition from laundry to climber.</p><p>"Yes," I replied.</p><p>He looked still confused but in between gasps a certain look of understanding and acceptance gradually claimed his features and he wheezed out, "Of course, the <em>day</em>!" before falling to the ground.</p><p>"Are you all right?" I asked, rushing to his side.</p><p>"As...th..ma," he told me in a low voice. "Please, Miss Smyth...go to...the fridge...in the...right...corner...Bring one...of the...little bottles...and a...syringe."</p><p>Quickly, (more so then Julian Gitchie probably expected due to my size) I ran to the fridge and retrieved both items, rushing back to him in great haste. Only to find the man had lowered his trousers half way to show off some of his buttocks.</p><p>I stood there blushing again and holding the syringe and bottle in my trembling hands.</p><p>"Please...inject...it," he requested.</p><p>"I don't know how," I mumbled.</p><p>He looked at me standing there, fat, stuck somewhere between short and tall and completely unremarkable and only nodded in sympathetic understanding. "Just...push the...needle...in...then...push the...head of...the needle...down."</p><p>Seeing his distress, I hurried over to him and, once again, did what was asked of me. As I pierced the skin of his nice bum with the needle, I was afraid that I had hurt him, but past all the wheezing, I couldn't tell. He seemed to calm down a little, though, as I injected the fluid into his bloodstream. "Was it my weight?" I asked sadly.</p><p>Julian Gitchie turned around to look at me, obviously hiding the complete truth. "No...I've always...thought that...Mama Cass had the...better voice between she...and Michelle Phillips...It's just good...Michelle is there...so that there is something...<em>beautiful</em> to look at."</p><p>He offered me an unconvincing smile before loudly finding the air to gasp out, "Ouch!"</p><p>"Sorry," I apologized, the needle having made a not so easy exit.</p><p>* * *</p><p>When Julian Gitchie finally started to calm down and catch his breath, his bronchial tubes relaxing with whatever serum I had filled him with, we were finally able to talk to each other as we sat together on the studio floor. As we did, I noticed how articulate and eloquent he was. When the man was not in the process of an asthma attack brought on by panic he was polite and a true gentleman.</p><p>Even if my tummy seemed to bother him.</p><p>He would often look between it and my face and I was becoming increasingly self conscious, until, suddenly, I sighed and looked away.</p><p>"I'm sorry, Erin," he said, and took a breath from his inhaler. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I am just used to beautiful things associated with Yoni Yum and Dew. The fact that..."</p><p>"That the Countess lets a fatty work there upsets you?" I finished.</p><p>"That the Countess is <em>broadening</em> the company's horizons," Gitchie stated and then looked embarrassed. "Not that I mean <em>broad</em> in the physical sense. Well, I do but not in reference to your size."</p><p>I breathed in deeply suddenly wishing I had an inhaler too or that Julian would have another attack and just stop talking. "Well, I'm not a model," I reminded him. "I work in the art department."</p><p>"But still," the watercolorist argued. "Every hiring reflects on the company itself. It should all be harmonious and complimentary. So,I wasn't expecting..."</p><p>I grabbed Julian Gitchie's head, his sideburns resting against either of my palms. "Close your eyes," I instructed.</p><p>The artist looked unsure of what to do with my touch, probably used to small hands with long, thin fingers which moved with birdlike grace and not my soft but plump, almost child like ones. "Now listen to me," I continued. "Can you hear how <em>big</em> I am?"</p><p>"No," he said and shook his head.</p><p>I removed my hands and smiled at him while he looked at me both curious and baffled. "I'm not the face of Yoni Yum &amp; Dew. I'm just one of its many voices...not that the Countess leaves much airtime for that either," I joked wryly.</p><p>"He is rather commanding, isn't he?" Julian stated, his own smile, albeit somewhat reserved,  appearing as he centered on my voice and not my offensive stomach.</p><p>"That's not the word we use for him at the office," I remarked.</p><p>"Oh, isn't it?" Julian asked. "What is the word you use for him?"</p><p>Looking at the aesthete, I knew he wouldn't be pleased but leaned forward and whispered it into his ear.</p><p>"Oh no!" Gitchie said obviously appalled as I offended his sensibilities yet again.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Once the man in charge of the art used in Yoni Yum and Dew's ad campaigns (since the Countess had forsaken photographs, that is) had risen to his feet, he showed me around his studio for a few minutes before we sat on a large sofa to discuss the very affairs the Countess had sent me to Gitchie's studio to go over with the artist. Gitchie was still as painfully polite and I realized that my boss had been right. Except for the more tanned coloring of his skin, and a certain cast to his features, I was not sure I would have known that the man was Mohican. He certainly did not conjure any of the visions I had long held in my youthful mind of tomahawks and wild freedom. Infact, Julian Gitchie seemed to share more in common with the dignified men whom had sat behind desks in luxurious offices while they sent cowboys out to "relocate" his ancestors.</p><p>But having seen Julian Gitchie's watercolors, he was, all in all, what I had expected in a strange way. The Countess' words seemed very true that he was far removed from a brute. And yet I liked Julian, although, I could still see him needing to take repeated breaths from his inhaler whenever his eyes rested on my tummy. He was gentle and sweet.</p><p>The problem was, that he lived his life in adoration of beauty. And living in a tee pee and wearing skins of animals was not beautiful in his eyes.</p><p>Neither was an excess of girth.</p><p>"Have you ever tried to lose weight?" he asked once during our meeting. He said it casually and with the same eloquence with which he said everything. He might have been asking me if I had ever seen the Mona Lisa. Or if I had ever walked along the seine perchance. Or maybe if I had ever seen a performance of La Boheme. Not something that caused a bolt of pain through my soul because the answer was</p><p>"Yes," I replied.</p><p>"I know of a fine dietician and exercise coach," he offered. "Maybe they could help."</p><p>"No," I said, liking Julian Gitchie but not liking where the conversation was going: away from work and back to what he saw as a lack of perfection in me.</p><p>"Your face is quite attractive," he complimented. "Even if your nose can look somewhat large from certain angles. If only..."</p><p>"NO!" I said, now reeling because he had already chosen what part of my anatomy next would disturb him if we should spend more time together.</p><p>Which we didn't need to, I realized in gratitude. Most of the Countess' instructions had been explained and seen through; all I needed to do was shake the aesthete's hand, say goodbye,or bid him adieu, whichever would please his aesthetic sensibilities, abd then go back to my beautyless existence.</p><p>"Goodbye," I told Julian Gitchie in a soft and hopefully warm tone. I held out my hand and then said something not entirely true, "It was very nice to meet you."</p><p>"As I with you," the prodigal Mohawk said, also clearly not sure that it had been nice at all. "Shall we say farewell and part as friends?"</p><p>"Yes," I said, shaking his hand, knowing that neither of my guesses had been right. "Farewell."</p><p>We exchanged shy, requisite smiles, both looking grateful that the meeting had almost reached its conclusion. That was when the door to the studio flew open and the Countess entered without invitation. "So, glad I caught you both," he said. "So, did everything go well? All peaches and cream?"</p><p>"Yes," Julian and I both said in unison and then looked embarrassed at the swiftness of our replies and the betrayal of how we had both found it an ordeal.</p><p>"Marvelous!" the Countess smiled, obviously fully aware of our discomfort and partially enjoying it. "Cause I've got absolutely wonderful news. I've decided to make Erin here your own personal assistant, Julian sweetheart. During this whole campaign and your extracurricular artshows she will be your shadow."</p><p>Julian Gitchie's eyes flew to me, weighing both the words and my body and flabbergasted how I could possibly be his shadow considering the discrepancies between our shapes.</p><p>I looked at the Countess and the word used at the office, helplessly flashed across my mind.</p><p>"How...lovely," Julian said, his wheezing starting up again. Taking another breath on his inhaler, the artist looked at my offensive belly and mumbled in the most articulate and well pronounced way I had ever heard a mumble mumbled in. "Of course...the day."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Inevitably, Weeks Go By</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Julian and I get to know each other better and I discover my own aesthetics before Gitchie receives an odd summons.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Julian Gitchie and I began to learn how to suffer one another.</p><p>I also had the added task of learning to suffer the watercolorist's insufferable dog, Butterfinger. Named after the candy bar that F. Scott Fitzgerald had supposedly been eating at the time of his death, Butty, for short, was a poodle afflicted with all of those nasty habits that plague most canines. He was constantly trying to smell my respective "butty" while licking his own. He was almost always constantly yapping. How Julian was able to concentrate on Yoni Yum and Dew's next campaign while the furry little thing with teeth was always loudly barking at this thing or that, was something I never completely understood. Gitchie took it like it was some radio station playing the most bizarre, unmelodic music ever conceived.</p><p>By the end of the week, we had, at least, foregone some of our mutual shyness. And by the end of the month, I had become used to Julian's highly cultured ways and the fact that everytime his eyes would drop to the protruding belly beneath my bosom he would dissolve into a startling fit of the wheezes. Meanwhile, Julian had accustomed himself to my less aesthetically and pudgy self and started to require the administration of his aminophylline less and less.</p><p>A task he had become dependent on me for, which was ironic since I was the cause of his fits.</p><p>I realized in hopeless horror that I was going to miss playing nurse and often being given the opportunity to look at Julian's rather nice ass. It seemed a matter of routine by then. Something would occur to cause the artist distress and then I would need to rush and get the required medicine from out of the fridge, Butty barking and yapping at my feet all the way there and back. By then, Gitchie would have dropped his drawers and I could inject him with his medicine. On certain days, I had even been able to glimpse something else on my sub-boss if I was particularly lucky and he was particularly careless.</p><p>But soon, I wouldn't get the chance to steal peeks and admiring glances anymore at the artistry that was the artist himself. At least, in that private showing.</p><p>There was, at least, another upside, however, to Julian's tolerance of me: I had also managed to win Butty over with pets and dog treats. But while this went over well with the dog, it didn't so much with his master.</p><p>"Erin, I must beg you not to continue feeding Butty. You will only make him...big," Julian reprimanded one day, his eyes falling down to study my tummy again at that last word.</p><p>"I won't kill your precious Butty by overfeeding him," I remarked, petting the top of the poodle's head. </p><p>The Mohawk eyed me, his mouth opening for a second and then closing just as quickly, and I realized that the artist hadn't been worried about his dog's health but more so his physical appearance.</p><p>I sighed knowing that Julian Gitchie preferred his pets to be thin too in order to satisfy his love of beauty.</p><p>"Fitzgerald died of a heart attack," I stated. "But it was probably because he was an alcoholic. Of course, they say it could have been tuberculosis related. Just like most things, they aren't really sure."</p><p>I could see Gitchie eyeing me again in that nervous fashion and starting to wheeze, which meant an asthma attack was happening. "How much did he weigh?" he asked.</p><p>"Does it really matter?" I retaliated with another question which sent the man into a fit and which sent me in return to the fridge.</p><p>Soon, I was pushing in the needle to the skin of his backside and feeling excited past my annoyance at our little contention, because I had once again caught a glimpse of Julian Gitchie's penis dangling and the swell of his testicles too. It was making me feel hot all over and, as color flooded my own higher cheeks, I decided to focus on something else than the man's glimpsed genitals.</p><p>"If Fitzgerald had been born in Canada, your dog would have been called, Crispy Crunch," I said, fighting the urge to feel the man's nice ass and to dip my hand between his thighs to touch what lay on the other side. "That's our version of it."</p><p>"You're...Canadian?" Julian asked, looking at me from over his back.</p><p>"Yes," I said in embarrassment. I knew then that I was guilty of my own aesthetics. Canada always reminded me of a less cultured place than the neighboring America I had flown away to. We were known for Lumberjacks, maple syrup and the all too violent sport of hockey. When I had crossed the border, I had been afraid that this meant I was more backwoods then the people now surrounding me, even though I had never known a lumberjack, disliked the syrup that came out of maples and didn't even know how to stand in a pair or skates, let alone traverse the ice in them holding a sock like stick.</p><p>I had pretty well been accepted and could hide my accent other than on certain words that betrayed my heritage.</p><p>Julian was looking at me in confusion. "I wouldn't...have known," he commented and I realized that I must not have used any of the tell tale words in his presence.</p><p>"Then, I shouldn't have said anything," I remarked and took the needle out far more gentler than that first time. Another impulse took me to kiss where it had been to make it all feel better but I restrained myself for a second time.</p><p>"We're you trying...to hide it?"</p><p>"I guess so," I stated. "It makes me feel small sometimes."</p><p>I knew that the irony of the statement was not lost on Julian Gitchie, whom always saw me through his aesthete's eye as being far from small.</p><p>"Did they ever make you feel like you needed to do that?" I asked, thinking of the man's abandonment of his heritage. Is that why you started to become...become so..."</p><p>"Caucasian?" Julian asked.</p><p>Embarrassed again, I nodded.</p><p>"I don't think so," Gitchie said, trying to turn on to his side. "That has always been an area in my life that I have struggled with explaining to others. Did the Countess tell you that I was in love with the Yoni Yum model Sissy Hankshaw once?"</p><p>I shook my head. Sissy was one of the company's most beloved models, despite the fact that she had outrageously huge thumbs. I was wondering how Gitchie was able to overlook this but it was obvious from the pain on his face that he he had somehow. "We had a relationship but it was difficult. She insisted on hitchhiking because of her thumbs, which always upset me. And I vexed her equally, I'm afraid, with my lack of being the Indian she wanted. She had atavistic dreams, ones of horses, open skies, freedom and war cries. Instead, she got a Native American with watercolors in his veins and not the wild blood that she wanted."</p><p>Studying Julian, I had to wonder what his sex life had been like with Hankshaw. Yes, she was gorgeous and would have pleased both his eyes and body, but it was hard to picture Julian Gitchie being able to make love to one of the many sprites he had spent his days painting. Adoration of the eyes did not always translate to adoration with the...</p><p>"She had a passionate affair with an older gentleman whom calls himself the Chink," Julian interrupted my thoughts. "He lives up in the mountains from what I heard."</p><p>"Is that the guy on the papers?" I asked. "The ones that try to sell copies by saying things like: THE CHINK SUMS IT UP, SAYS LIFE IS HARD IF YOU THINK IT'S HARD?"</p><p>Julian nodded sadly. "The same."</p><p>I crinkled my nose up in disapproval. I hated those papers and the philosophical image of the man whom they used to sell them. Life <em>could</em> be hard regardless of if you thought it was or not. Starving to death or fighting a war wasn't suddenly easy because you wanted it to be.</p><p>"<em>I</em> couldn't even stay hard long enough to make Sissy satisfied," Julian stated in regret.</p><p>Seeing the man's pain, my hand went instinctively to rest on him to try to offer some comfort. "That sort of thing sometimes depends on the other person's effort too," I commented.</p><p>"You think so?" Julian asked.</p><p>"Yes," I replied truthfully. I then realized that the skin that was touching my palm was the flesh of Julian's bum. It was just as nice as I knew it would be but made me turn beet red that I was actually touching it.</p><p>Julian started to turn that shade too.</p><p>I started to hitch up his trousers.</p><p>"Is the aminophylline working now?" I asked, acting as if my intent had been to help him pull his pants up all along.</p><p>"Yes, quite...thank you," Julian Gitchie stated, back to his shy gentility.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Fittingly, with the talk of Julian's Mohican heritage only a week and a half behind us, the artist received a note from his mother and grandmother one day requesting that he come see them on the plot of land they lived on on the outskirts of the city.</p><p>A reserve for all those whom still held on to their ancestor's way of life.</p><p>That they were less modern then Julian Gitchie became obviously clear when the message was hand delivered on deerskin parchment by a man dressed in full Indian regalia. I took it, at first, believing it was a prank of some sort until I handed it to Gitchie, whom looked on the verge of needing more serum.</p><p>"Oh no," he said and started to wheeze.</p><p>I was about to ask what it was but ran to get his medicine first. When I returned, Julian was leaning and gasping out the window. As I looked over his shoulder, I saw the Mohawk going down the street on a beige colored horse.</p><p>I got on my knees behind Julian, lowered his pants and shot him full of the medication to clear his bronchial tube. My face was on line with his buttocks once more and I pulled his pants up before my mouth could see what the skin felt like against my lips, this time, and not my hand.</p><p>"What was that all about?" I asked, never having realized when the Countess had placed me as the aesthete's assistant that I would ever be hurled into a situation where messages written on dead animal skins would be delivered by horseback to the studio door.</p><p>"That was a...letter from my mother," Julian stated. "I'm to meet tomorrow...with her and my grandmother...also. Once a month they summon me to see if I have...decided to disown my servitude to the white man...and if I care to join them on the reserve."</p><p>I thought of what the Countess' reaction would be to being lumped in with the "white man" and laughed. He certainly was not the cowboy or politician type that the Gitchie women had in mind and I could picture him placing his hands on his hips and turning his head away in outrage.</p><p>After he had given the air a sniff or two to see how much of a scent the two women's privates gave off, that is.</p><p>"I take it that the answer has always been no and it will be this time too?" I asked in fond wryness.</p><p>"You know me very well then," Julian replied and meeting my eyes, fear still in his own even if the wheezes were now vacant from his voice. "I shall be forced to tell them again that I am choosing to remain in the city. It is not something that I am looking forward to."</p><p>His eyes began to travel up and down my pudgy body, once more getting thwarted in their momentum at the speed bump known as my belly, before he met my gaze again. "You must come with me this time, Erin," he stated. "They'll like you because you are a woman. Even if you are white."</p><p>I swallowed in apprehension. "You really want me to come?" I asked.</p><p>"Yes," Julian nodded. "I often regret that I must go by myself. With you there, I might be able to survive and you can bring my medicine if I have another asthma attack. I love my mother and grandmother but they don't understand how the dust and grass out there disturbs my ailment."</p><p>I thought it over. Although, we were only professionally involved, I was curious about meeting Julian Gitchie's family. The thought of seeing him interact with them also was exciting. "Okay," I agreed.</p><p>"Good," Gitchie said with relief. "We shall go together tomorrow afternoon."</p><p>"Are we going to have to go on horseback?" I inquired, glancing out the window.</p><p>"No," Julian stated, aghast at the very idea.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The next day, we were inside of the celebrated artist's limousine, being driven to the reserve in luxuriant style and studying the city's architecture.</p><p>Julian looked out at the passing scenery, trembling slightly but managing to keep his asthma in check. To try to lighten the mood, I joked. "You're right. This is much better than the horse."</p><p>The ex-Mohawk turned to grace me with a smile. "Yes I would hate to wind up bull legged!" he said with a laugh. "Not very attractive. And when one thinks of women riding horses, the image is of Lady Godiva's blonde, petite and voluptuous beauty not someone of your great size, Erin."</p><p>To his credit, Julian Gitchie looked somewhat embarrassed after he had said that last bit, before he turned to stare out the window.</p><p>I then mirrored his action, looking out my own at New York City quickly passing by.<em> "Life is hard if you think it's hard,"</em> I thought in sarcasm to myself and rolled my eyes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dear Keanu;</p><p>Still fighting a major case of exhaustion, I managed to finish this and don't think it turned out too badly, thank God.</p><p>I just found out, though, that the Christmas present I bought for a friend was just purchased by the friend herself. :/ I'm a loser that way, Keanu. And if there's a wrong choice to make, I'll do it. :/</p><p>But...It's the thought that counts, right? I gotta keep telling myself that. I feel like karma doesn't always work like they claim. Sometimes it feels like when you try to do something nice it backfires on you. Have you ever had that happen? I will keep telling myself that too. That if bad things happen it's because I'm hopefully doing something right and the world doesn't always like that.</p><p>So, I'll keep on doing 'em anyway! ;D</p><p>Much love,<br/>Erin<br/>XO XO<br/>:D &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. That Time of the Month</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Julian and I visit his mother and grandmother on the reserve.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yay! Thank God, I had the chance to update this even though I walked that half mile and back. </p><p>I wore my Ted "Theodore" Logan sweater so he could accompany me. I even passed a Circle K. If I had my phone on me, and my sis with me, I would have stood under the sign and had her take a photo while I flashed the Ted sweater. Even though I'm shy, It would have been too cool a chance to pass up! :D &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The moment that we left the city and had entered the usually unseen area of green grass and trees, I noticed that Julian became rather quiet, more so than was common, and that his eyes began to water. I swiftly jumped to the conclusion that he was suffeting from that specific and powerful nostalgia that came with remembrances of our childhood. It seemed only natural that going to visit the two most powerful female figures in his life that he would find himself succumbing to sentimentality.</p><p>"Did you miss it that much?" I asked, softly.</p><p>Julian turned around, opened his mouth, blinked from his eyes a few fat tears and then quickly turned his head and sneezed at the limousine's window.</p><p>"No...I...I...I," he said, his voice thick with phlegm. "I have severe allerGIES!" he explained, averting his head quickly in time to add more snot onto the glass and not my bewildered face.</p><p>He soon went fishing into his pocket for his handkerchief and apologized. "I'm sorry. I...I'm not used to...to...the...AH-CHOO! The wilderness. I prefer the city."</p><p>While we were hardly in the <em>wilderness</em> it was still very much different from New York City and I felt sympathy for my temporary boss. "I like the city too," I whispered conspiratorially.</p><p>"Really?" he asked, trying to wipe his nose in the most gentlemanly way possible.</p><p>"Electricity is my favorite invention," I commented.</p><p>Julian Gitchie sighed. "You're in for a <em>very</em> long day then, Erin. There won't be any where we are going."</p><p>As we suddenly found ourselves traveling down a bumpy and almost nonexistent road, I found myself undoubtingly believing him.</p><p>* * *</p><p>We eventually found ourselves driving to an area where tents were scattered and horses grazed. The few men and women there did not look at the limousine approaching in awe and wonder but in disgust and I thought I saw a few spit at it in contempt as it drew even nearer.</p><p>"These are my people, Erin," Julian stated.</p><p>I studied them and saw the same coloring and features but that was it. Otherwise, they were as different from Julian Gitchie as a Rolling Stones Song was from a Herman and the Hermits ditty.</p><p>When the car pulled to a stop, Gitchie got out from his side while I climbed out of mine. We walked in unison to the hood of the limo, where we then stood side by side. Eventually out of a tee pee came two women, one tall and stoically attractive with long raven hair worn in two braids. She wore an outfit which once might have been related to Bambi. Shortly, she was joined by another woman, short herself and stooped slightly with age. Her face was as wrinkled as a piece of paper scrunched up and discarded in the wastebasket four times over. She had hair of silver, lying long and loose at her back. They both resembled Julian more than any of the others but they seemed harsher in ever respect to my genteel companion. They were scowling as they approached and I could hear the man beside me starting to wheeze.</p><p>"Do you...?" I asked.</p><p>"No," he replied shaking his head. "I <em>will</em> though."</p><p>"Weak Rabbit," the younger woman greeted coldly.</p><p>"Mother," Julian returned and went to kiss her as I tried not to look in shock over Gitchie's other name.</p><p>"Call me by my given name," she admonished. "Unless you have decided to forsake the ways of the white man and to return to us."</p><p>"Okay, Fish in Stream," Julian sighed and finally planted a small kiss on her cheek. "And you too Soaring Gull," he then greeted the older woman in the same way. She said something to him in a language I didn't understand.</p><p>"I want you to meet Erin Smyth," Julian introduced me. "The Countess has appointed her my personal secretary during the latest campaign."</p><p>"The Countess," Fish in Stream spat. "The white freak that you serve. Let him come here so we can repay him for what he has done to you."</p><p>I felt protective of my real boss then. The Countess was no more responsible for how Julian Gitchie chose to behave as Gitchie was for how the Countess saw himself.</p><p>The older woman looked me over and said some words that were obviously not complimentary.</p><p>"No the white woman is not my lover," Julian rushed to say a little too quickly.</p><p>"Good," the artist's mother interjected. "Her size is admirable but she is very <em>white</em>. After the last one you brought here,  we had been hoping for someone less the color of a buffalo's bones left to bleach in the sun and more the flesh of a salmon."</p><p>Julian looked down at me and gulped before turning his head and sneezing again. A big bunch of gunk landed on the windshield, looking almost like a big bug had gotten squashed there. Julian looked at it in embarrassed distaste while his grandmother said something I still couldn't decipher.</p><p>"What did she say?" I asked.</p><p>Julian looked at me and started to wheeze so badly, that I knew I'd be fetching his aminophylline from the cooler in the limousine soon. "She said that is the best piece of art that I have ever created."</p><p>* * *</p><p>The day was spent with Julian alternately sneezing, having me inject him with his medicine or breathing into his inhaler. It all depended on if I could manage to get away with the prick of the needle while his matriarchs were around. The poor man could not do anything right in their eyes and I suddenly felt very sorry for him. He was looked at as a traitor, and they spent either most of their time ridiculing him or trying to entice him back to the tribe.</p><p>At some point, Julian tried to appease them by going horseback riding with the two women. I luckily was let out of the endeavor, a fact due more to my whitness than my size.</p><p>"Please forgive me for the Godiva comment back in the limo," Julian apologized, standing beside a beautiful palomino.</p><p>"I forgive you," I pardoned. </p><p>I was glad for the apology and the chance to witness my boss on horseback. However, the moment Julian climbed on the back of the majestic horse, he instantly fell off and landed in a heap on the dusty ground.</p><p>"JULIAN!" I screamed and rushed over to where he was lying.</p><p>Although he had already started to sit up, I helped him the rest of the way, before taking him in my arms and holding him to me chest before he could fully rise. "Don't stand yet! You might have hurt yourself."</p><p>I felt the mohican tense in my embrace and then relax, an action which almost seemed like an unwanted surrender. "I guess, if you are not a Lady Godiva, Erin, I cannot claim to be a Sir Lancelot either."</p><p>"You never have been," Fish in Stream criticized and shook her head, unmounting from her own horse. "We will see if your hunting skills have improved. Go! The men are getting ready now!"</p><p>Julian looked at me in worry as a group of men were coming closer and I returned the look. We rushed to our feet together. As he reached for my hand for protection, two of the tribe's warriors had already grabbed him each by a shoulder and were dragging him away.</p><p>"You come with us," Fish in Stream said. "We have weaving to do. You are white and your work will suffer for it, but we can keep an eye on you then."</p><p>While Julian was still being taken away to hunt, I was similarly being abducted to weave and as the distance between us grew, our hands shot out, grasping for the other, while our gazes were locked in the fear of our separation and what was to come...</p><p>* * *</p><p>An hour and a half later we were both back in New York City, fortunately. What wasn't so fortunate was that we were inside of a hospital and staring at large black stitches on Julian Gitchie's foot.</p><p>"I'm so sorry, Julian," I apologized.</p><p>I'd only been starting to get the hang of weaving when the men had brought the prodigal son back with a large arrow sticking out of his foot. He was unconscious and had presumably fainted at the sight of his own blood.</p><p>"What happened?" I asked in concern, rushing to my boss in fright.</p><p>"His arrow went off prematurely," a brave stated, revealing that Julian had this specific problem in a nonsexual way too. "Up it went, into the air, and when it came down, there it landed."</p><p>When I had taken the man from them,  the hunting party and Julian's relatives had looked like it was acceptable this time.</p><p>Any Mohican whom shot himself in the foot was not wanted in the tribe.</p><p>"Don't be," Julian replied, now awake and in relief. "At least, it gave us an excuse to come back to the city."</p><p>"You didn't intentionally shoot yourself in the foot for a chance to leave, did you?" I asked, seeing it now as a very real possibility.</p><p>Julian Gitchie shook his head in sorrow. "No. I'm just very bad when it comes to arrows. I make a very poor Indian, all things considered."</p><p>* * *</p><p>This fact seemed to still be bothering him as we walked through the door to his apartment. When Butty came up to greet him, wagging his tail and yapping happily, the artist only gave him a few quick pets before sulkily hobbling towards the window, looking out at the bright lights of New York City, sparkling beneath the crescent moon. I came to stand behind him and we stared at them together for a moment or two, watching the long rows of cars and instead of the sporadic sprinkling of horses out on the reserve.</p><p>"I know I have failed them," Julian stated, his voice sad but without a trace of an asthmatic wheeze. Apparently, it was such an old anxiety that his bronchial tubes had already become used to it. "They want me to be like them, to embrace my roots and be a true Mohawk. And maybe, they're right: Maybe I am just a weak rabbit whom didn't try hard enough."</p><p>Now, I hated the Chink a little bit more knowing Julian Gitchie's pain. He loved the two women we had left behind on the reserve. It was hard for him believing he had hurt them. Perhaps that was why everything was so damn easy for people like the Chink, I realized then. They never truly cared about anyone except for themselves,  so they never really worried. Even their supposed compassion and empathy turned out to be some device to build their own ego and image.</p><p>I saw the other me reflected in the glass place her chubby hand on Gitchie's shoulder and look at him with more fondness than was safe for her heart. Julian didn't look at my face luckily, he looked at my hand and saw how round it was resting there on him. He seemed disturbed but in some new way and suddenly left for the couch, leaving me standing in front of the window, my large body now shown and not covered by Julian's form.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, I walked towards it and gazed out the window in an attempt to not have to see myself.</p><p>I looked at the buildings of the city that helped create the skyline, all the disparate sizes and heights between them, and how they fit together, not all alike but different, and I knew that that was what <em>made</em> it beautiful.</p><p>"Anybody who thinks they have all the answers makes me mad," I stated staring at the wilderness mankind had made. "Just like anyone who professes to love everybody, and be oh so free, and then wants to cage certain people just because they don't <em>act</em> like them or believe the same thing. If that's how your mother and grandmother want to live, well that's right and fine for them, although I'm not sure that was an authentic mohawk camp or something they saw in a bad western once. Sissy and the Chink that's fine too. But the minute they start to tell you or the Countess or <em>anyone</em> else that they're wrong just for being themselves, I can't help myself; I get angry."</p><p>"Erin," Julian murmured and I turned to face him staring at me from the couch.</p><p>"If this was all an act," I said, raising my plump arms, "That would be one thing. But I have never seen one single thing to make me believe that you are just pretending, Julian Gitchie. Believe me, in certain areas, I wish that you were," I remarked more sadly, putting my arms down and stroking one with the same chubby hand that had rested on the man's shoulder. "But this, <em>THIS</em>, is you. That poodle over there and your piano, the watercolors, which are <em>beautiful</em>, I might add, and your book collection. Your horrible plaid suits and your polite and inhibited manners. Those <em>are</em> Julian Gitchie. And if they can't love you for it...well maybe then they should look at themselves for a bit and rexamine their own lives to see what's wrong."</p><p>I turned from Julian to see myself staring back; it was the same fat girl as before. But she was me, at keast, I knew. And she was kind.</p><p>"I'd better go," I stated, however, knowing I was still the fat girl Julian Gitchie would never see as beautiful and not belonging with all of his other beautiful possessions.</p><p>I heard the birds in his room tweeting as I headed for the door but they were drowned out by a very loud "WAIT!"</p><p>By the door, I stopped and spun around to see Julian hobbling towards me. The watercoloring Mohican looked at me for thirty seconds before he found the courage to speak. "Did you really mean what you said?" he asked softly and with a certain degree of the shyness I felt too having him stand so close to me. It was odd, I mused, I could be very close to his naked ass and feel attraction but it was when his face was a foot or two away that I felt suddenly very self conscious and like I wish I had a shell to crawl back into.</p><p>"Yes," I returned. "If I hadn't, Julian, I never would have said it. I think you're <em>you</em>...and that's always whom you <em>should</em> be."</p><p>The watercolorist then closed the difference between us, taking me into his arms and making me gasp first before surrendering into the embrace as the man had done after falling off of his horse.</p><p>" Why...why do you feel so wonderful?" Julian Gitchie asked, holding me a little tighter and resting his chin on the top of my head. "I don't understand it. You feel better than Sissy did."</p><p>I could feel his breath moving the strands of my hair and though it was tickling me, it also felt wonderful too. "Sometimes the things that <em>feel</em> good aren't always the things that <em>look</em> good," I replied, a little sad that Julian Gitchie had to be <em>both</em> as I held him very tightly back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dear Keanu;</p><p>Thinking about whether you read these or not, I realized that I could become very self conscious. I wondered if it would change the way I write these. Then I knew that it wouldn't. I have to be me here. You can't like or dislike me any other way. So, I'll still say sweet things and rude things and thoughtful things whenever I need to and just be myself.</p><p>There is something I really want to tell you. This is important so I'll tell you now because who knows when chances can be stolen.</p><p>In 2017, I was in a truly horrible place in my life. The man I had loved had betrayed me, my anxiety and OCD were at full throttle every second of the day. My sister was not sympathetic but made me feel worse. Life was a constant source of pain to me. I felt no hope. None.</p><p>Well, I remember looking in Ebert's film review book and seeing the film, "The Horseman on the Roof." I've never seen the film; never read the book. But the character of Angelo Pardi touched me from that review and reading the story synopsis online. I wanted a man like that: one whom could help me through my suffering, like Angelo does with Pauline.</p><p>Well, when I became a fan of yours again, after hating you there for a while, I finally found some form of peace in my pain. When I saw you, heard your voice, anything, I felt right somehow. I was myself again. My OCD wasn't as strong because I knew I just liked you. It was real and honest, not some false voice, and it felt good after so long where everything felt bad.</p><p>When I read that you wanted the role of Angelo, that made perfect sense to me too. And though you were sad about not getting it...I want you to know, Keanu, that you didn't need to play him. You ARE Angelo Pardi to me.</p><p>My OCD and anxiety aren't all gone. Seeing how severe they are, that would take a miracle or death. Like Graham Greene once said when asked about his faith (or to paraphrase it) in life you aren't always happy, you aren't always sad. Sometimes you believe and sometimes you don't. But he believed more than he doubted.</p><p>You make me believe more than doubt.</p><p>I can't call you my Dumbo feather. Dumbo's feather didn't mean anything. But you are my Timothy. Timothy gave Dumbo a friend when everyone was critical or hurtful and his mother, his only other protector, had been taken. Without Timothy, Dumbo would never find the belief or the strength to fly.</p><p>Feeling like Dumbo, I was looking for a Timothy too. Someone to help me feel better when I was sad and to believe in myself. But I could never find him either.</p><p>Until I found you. </p><p>You give me the strength to fly when I think of you and I feel happy. It's the reason why you mean so much to me. Because I was so lost, frightened and alone for so long. It's also why I write these: to try to help show what you mean to me.</p><p>So can I hold your tail and just follow behind you for as long as I can?</p><p>And if you want, since you don't actually have a tail, can I grab onto anything else you would like me to?</p><p>Sorry. </p><p>There I go again, just being myself.</p><p>Much love,<br/>Erin<br/>XO XO<br/>:D &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Event of the Year</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Julian gets invited to do a show at the Grey Art Gallery. Before the date of the showing, I confess my feelings to the artist, but end up fearing that I have wrecked things between us forever. However, at the gallery, Julian shows me just how wrong I am.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yay! :D Another story completed!</p><p>I keep wanting to call Julian the antithesis to John Wick. But they both have good hearts so that's not completely accurate. I'm pleased with the end result of the story though. </p><p>What I'm less pleased with is that I reread my note from yesterday and I think I goofed up on the grammar on that last sentence, so I fixed it. But I'm mad at myself because I should have caught it before. But I was tired and my mind was sore so it escaped my notice. To tell the truth, the chapter kept giving me trouble and I was getting frustrated with it. :/ It's fixed now. Still, I hope I didn't mess it up too much. My mind tends to obsess and beat me up over stuff like that. Sigh. Oh well.</p><p>I have come up with my Swedish Dicks Christmas story. It won't be a direct sequel to "Have a Funky Funky Christmas" but it will be a part of this series and holiday themed. I'm also going to try to post it on the 22nd to mark the anniversary of when I started writing these stories featuring Keanu's characters and myself. So if you're interested keep your eyes open on the Tuesday before Christmas! :D &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things inevitably became different between Julian and myself after the visit to his mother and grandmother's.</p><p>It wasn't hard to discern the source for it. For one brief moment in time we had been each other's only strength in a land that was foreign to the both of us. Oh, Julian Gitchie might have been born a Mohawk but he had become so far removed from the lifestyle, living deep in the city inside of a grandly furnished apartment instead of a sparse tee pee and eating at five star restaurants rather than feasting on what he had managed to forage in the woods, that he was as lost in his former life as I, a civiliation loving girl from Ontario Canada, was. We had clung to one another like two travellers sent back in a time machine to some past land and had come back grateful to have survived the experience with only a few stitches on Julian's foot.</p><p>That wasn't all though.</p><p>Our talk afterwards, and Julian's embrace of my round, soft, pudgy form, had made him less frightened of me and more uncomfortable of me all at once. He now knew I wasn't so bad to touch.</p><p>In fact, he was touching me all of the time.</p><p>The artist seemed to constantly find reasons to place his hands upon me in some innocent fashion. He'd ask me to bring him a certain paint or brush which had somehow left the side of his easel, and in the passing of it, his fingers would brush mine. He took to holding that often caressed hand before I left him and giving it a squeeze before I left for home. Brushing by me in the studio, Gitchie would also grab my upper arms to slide past me. Even if there was no reason to get close to me, large spaces to either of our sides.</p><p>And then there were the hugs! He was using any excuse to hug me! It was understandable when he was given an artshow at the Grey Art Gallery for him to take me in his arms and embrace me out of joy. But when he did the same because Butty hadn't done a doo doo on the carpet in two days it was highly questionable.</p><p>I supposed it could have been construed as some form of harassment but since it lacked any hint of sexuality it hardly seemed important to bring to the Countess' attention. Which probably would have only pleased the founder of Yoni Yum and Dew for it would have been some proof that there was hot blooded male inside of the aesthete. But Julian remained always the gentleman and I never felt endangered in his company.</p><p>A fact which I regretted <em>tremendously</em>.</p><p>I quite liked being touched in my own secret and pleased way. I had barely happened before. Most of the times it had occurred it was with my mother and sister or female friends, whom were less likely to be wary of showing signs of physical affection. Besides a few slaps from men here and there on various body parts, I had very rarely been touched by a member of the opposite sex before.</p><p>Especially not one I had fallen in love with.</p><p>I enjoyed it and not wholly in a way that was pure and chaste.</p><p>Yes, it seemed that maybe Julian Gitchie might have had reasons to contact the Countess on account of <em>me</em> because his contact was driving me quite erotically wild! </p><p>I had to comfort myself alone with the knowledge that he had come to discover that being fat did not necessarily mean that I was gross to the touch.</p><p>I only still wished that he would find me physically attractive, his eyes coming to love me as much as his fingers seemed to.</p><p>* * *</p><p>One afternoon, Julian in the early stages of his latest piece of art to unveil during the Grey show, the watercolorist was making an excuse to pass me again, this time within reason, squeezing behind me in the kitchen, a wall to his back and a counter to my tummy. His hands grasped my chubby upper arms and I felt his crotch pressed against my ass so nice and cozy that I couldn't stop myself: I gave my bum a wiggle or two.</p><p>The action made Julian freeze, his hands tightening on me. Something responded at my bottom...I heard the man whom devoted himself to beauty suddenly gulp...and then he started to wheeze. Now, I must confess, I was not as upset to hear that sound as I should have been. It had been a while since Julian Gitchie had had an asthma attack.</p><p>Meaning it had been an equally long time since I had seen his ass.</p><p>"I'll get the aminophylline," I exclaimed, breaking free from the hold and further feeling what I had caused with my inappropriate action.</p><p>When I returned, it was to find Gitchie trying to lower his pants but having difficulty and being embarrassed because he was still having problems with his front end. He glanced at me, his face turning red. I tried to pretend I didn't see anything and he knelt on the floor, offering me his posterior to prick with the needle.</p><p>I did.</p><p>Things were going well and normal, I comforted myself.</p><p>And then I went and kissed his exposed bottom.</p><p>"Did you just kiss my buttocks?" Julian Gitchie asked, his voice squeaking as his bronchial tubes opened at the same time he suffered a shock which made them want to restrict again.</p><p>What could I say? That my lips had happened to fall on his butt cheek? It hardly seemed an excuse the educated man would swallow. I came to the realization that honesty was perhaps the best policy and sighed and swallowed before answering,  "I did what I wanted to do for a very long time, Julian."</p><p>I then let my plump hand rest on the kissed cheek.</p><p>He shivered from the touch and we stayed like that, some weird and semi obscene statue, until Butty suddenly showed up to bark at us, not liking the quiet that had descended on the studio. I removed my hand in shame, Julian quickly did up his trousers and then sat down on the floor beside me.</p><p>"Do you...<em>like</em> me, Erin?" he asked.</p><p>I wrung my hands in my lap. "Yes...yes, I like you very much, Julian Gitchie," I confessed. "I like you so much, you might even say that I'm in love with you."</p><p>"Oh dear," Julian said, turning away from me as I did with him.</p><p>We were both suddenly, terribly shy, our professional relationship and friendship shaken by the revelation. Yet, we continued to sit by each other, the overweight girl and the cultured Mohican, trying to figure out what to do with the whole event of bum wriggles, the excited corrosponding action of Gitchie's part, asthma attacks, bum kisses and poodle yaps.</p><p>In the end, we did what was the best for both of us.</p><p>We rose to our feet and pretended the whole thing had never happened.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Julian's latest artwork almost done, the campaign for Yoni Yum and Dew put on hold until it was over and the artshow only a few days away, my temporary boss was busy preparing the boxes to send over to the Grey. I hadn't seen the watercolor yet which was to be the center of the show, the aesthete always very private about his work until its completion.</p><p>Things had once again changed between us.</p><p>No longer did Julian try to touch me. And when he was on the verge of suffering another attack, he seemed to force himself to stop, willing his bronchial tube to behave. I regretted it all, of course. I'd grown as addicted to the artist's little touches as he had once been to his serum, but could not wean myself off of them as successfully as Gitchie was doing with the aminophylline.</p><p>The night before the show, staring at my boss' profile, I broke down, placing my back against a box, which was not as pleasant as Julian's body had felt against it. I started to cry and wiped my eyes. I knew he was staring at me, could feel his gaze as surely as I had once felt his touch.</p><p>"What is it, Erin?" he asked gently.</p><p>It was that tone, so gentle and kind that gave me the strength to finally meet his eyes. His stare was so sweet, I wondered how anybody could want Julian Gitchie to be anything other than what he was.</p><p>"I'm afraid I made you hate me," I exclaimed, watching him slowly walk towards me. "I should have...I should have kept my mouth shut. I'm not beautiful enough to say that I love you."</p><p>Lowering my head, another tear fell, as fat and round as I was, and Julian caught it on his fingertip, touching me once more in the process. I looked up and saw him staring at the drop of water on his finger. "This is what I work in," Julian commented. "This is my medium. Heaven knows, I caused Sissy to cry enough of her own."</p><p>His eyes went from the teardrop to my face. "Tomorrow, Erin...then you'll understand that I don't hate you."</p><p>We stared at each other and I understood then that Julian's feelings were very much like his artwork: kept to himself and only revealed when he felt the time was right.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Julian Gitchie's art was placed all throughout the Grey Art Gallery. Beautiful maidens frolicked in nature, offering their dazzling forms and exquisite perfection, hung on sterile walls made so to showcase the artistic talent all the more. Even Sissy Hankshaw was there cavorting whilst her oversized thumbs were carefully hidden.</p><p>After a brief time given to admire them all, the crowd (consisting of art lovers, patrons, critics and journalists) were led to a room with a stage and podium. An easel stood there presently too, a canvas hidden beneath a sheet: Julian's latest masterpiece.</p><p>The artist passed me on the way to the stage, stopping to take my hands in his and squeeze them. I reveled in the touch but felt nervous for him, feeling my pocket for the vial of serum incase his asthma finally won out after days of Gitchie's victory over it.</p><p>As the Mohawk walked behind the thin podium to the microphone, he glanced at the crowd with none of my anxiety.</p><p>The crowd mumbled for a bit until the man spoke, informing them that it was time to listen.</p><p>"Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish to take this opportunity to thank you for being here for my first showing here at the Grey Art Gallery. That you have taken the time to be present and to view my art, immeasurably touches me."</p><p>Although he was far from being the first genteel, aesthete artist they had ever seen, my Julian Gitchie was undoubtedly the first Mohican one they had ever met, and one whom dabbled in watercolors, to boot. They looked at him in the condescending, self congratulatory manner that bespoke of their pride in tolerating him so very well and I suddenly felt as protective for the man as I had when he had been on the reserve. It seemed for people like Julian and myself we would always end up not belonging wherever we were placed. There were two worlds and we would never be in either. </p><p>"Before I unveil my latest creation, I wish to say something," Gitchie explained looking at the faces in the audience, "I went to a school where they taught us students how to say and do things very very properly. What they did not explain to me was how to tell the people I care about that I love them and how much they mean to me. Or perhaps, more importantly, to show it to them also. So, today, I have made an effort to do both."</p><p>His eyes met mine, as I leaned against the wall, and I suddenly felt that it didn't really matter if we failed to fit in with our surroundings. We fit in together. That was enough.</p><p>The artist broke the stare to walk to the covered canvas. Grabbing hold of the sheet, and finding my eyes again, Julian ripped it off, revealing the artwork lying underneath.</p><p>I blushed as I saw it. My mouth fell open and then closed again. I blinked in disbelief and then stared without a blink disturbing that stare.</p><p>The painting was of me.</p><p>In the place of Julian Gitchie's usual famous thin, tall and breathtaking creatures of beauty (the ones he had gained his fame and fortune from painting,) stood a fat figure next to the river's edge. The watercolors forbade the use of too great detail, but the artist's talent was strong enough for it to be easily recognizable all the same. I looked to Julian and felt my breathing deepen while my heart steadily raced.</p><p>"I call it 'True Beauty Finally Seen,'" Julian announced, looking back at me. There was no smile on his face but he seemed content, happy, glowing with epiphany and love.</p><p>The audience was murmurring. They had not been expecting this sudden diversion from his set plan of goddesses and nymphs, princesses and angels. To have turned from that which was idealized to something so human and imperfect they didn't know how to take it or react. The fact that they were unaware of me standing behind them (quiet as was my nature) and their combined ignorance of the weeks I had spent with the artist further contributed to their blindness.</p><p>Having not walked the same path, there was no way they could instantly arrive at the same destination Julian Gitchie had.</p><p>"Is it meant to be ironic?" one patron asked, trying to find his own deeper meaning.</p><p>"No, it confronts the viewer's mind with an image contrary to the title," a female art critic remarked, pleased with her own wisdom.</p><p>"No," Julian said, gazing at me imploringly, wanting me to know his sincere intent. "It was meant as neither irony nor confrontation but as a confession of love. If anything it is a challenge for us to finally let us see what our heart knows."</p><p>A smile played at his lips before he added, "And our fingers and hands too."</p><p>* * *</p><p>We sat side by side on white chairs in front of the stage where the watercolor Julian had done of me was still standing.</p><p>"I'm sorry that they all left so quickly," I apologized, staring at the canvas.</p><p>"I am too," he said, gazing at the same artwork.</p><p>"It's all my fault..." I apologized. "If you painted someone like Sissy...if it was her up there..."</p><p>"I'm not in love with Sissy anymore," Julian stated and turned his eyes on the subject of his rejected latest creation. "I'm in love with you, Erin."</p><p>I had turned to look at him too. My hand went to his face and touched it, lovingly before we closed the distance between the two chairs and kissed for the first time since our awkward introduction. It was everything that I wanted it to be: as soft as pastels but as bright as them too.</p><p>We heard someone take the seat to Julian's right and parted to find the Countess sitting there and staring at the watercolor on the easel. "Well, I'm glad you two finally got together. I knew you would in time. You're both so perversely different and woefully alike it was really only natural."</p><p>Julian took my hand and the three of us studied in unison "True Beauty Finally Seen."</p><p>"Of course, I must implore you <em>not</em> to use <em>that</em> image for Yoni Yum and Dew's latest advertising, Julian, darling!" the Countess exclaimed. "Dear lord! Can you imagine the drop in sales?"</p><p>Sighing, I rested my head on Gitchie's shoulder, comforted again that, at least, I had found where I fit and belonged.</p><p>"Don't worry," Julian whispered into my ear. "You don't need the wretched stuff anyway. Butty would know, the dirty little butt sniffer."</p><p>The artist then kissed me on the forehead, painting my frown into a smile.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dear Keanu;</p><p>I read an interesting thing about Norman Rockwell today. I'll mention it since Julian's an artist so it is rather fitting. They said Rockwell was once told by a therapist that he painted his happiness, but did not live it. He himself, also, once said "I paint life as I would like it to be."</p><p>That's what I'm doing with these stories: writing my happiness. But there's a certain living of it too in the process and telling. They make me happy. In this world, that might be the best that can be attained. </p><p>Is it the same for you? You put so much of yourself into your films...are you acting your happiness?</p><p>That's probably strange to say because your films are certainly not all lightness and happiness...but still in movies, as in books, there is a beauty to actions and emotions that is not always present in life, even the darker feelings. Love, hate, joy, despair turn out stronger, more brighter in art. Even in the pain depicted, do you find some happiness or beauty? </p><p>I can find both in the sad passages I write. Are you the same?</p><p>Much love,<br/>Erin<br/>XO XO<br/>:D &lt;3</p><p> </p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dear Keanu;</p><p>Happy Friday the 13th Keanu!  It was always my mom's lucky day.</p><p>On Tuesday night, I tried a new nose piece on my CPAP machine to see if that would be better. It wasn't. I felt like I was suffocating! I ended up just taking it off and sleeping without the darn machine.</p><p>The next morning my CPAP provider called! I didn't know that there were CPAP police! :O</p><p>Now I have to use the darn thing. The only good thing was I went back to the old nose piece and it feels much better now.</p><p>Wow. I still can't get over it though. It was like the truant officer. Did you ever have him after you? I heard you missed school a lot. You said you used to play hookey to play the pinball machine across from this one hotel.</p><p>I still wish we could have played hookey together. Sigh.</p><p>But you want to know something? If I was sleeping with you, and you wanted to get frisky, that CPAP thing would be off in a second flat. Just let those old CPAP police come and get me. I'd be too high in the sky to care. After all, a dream would have happened, sleep or no sleep.</p><p>Much love,<br/>Erin<br/>XO XO<br/>:D &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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